In the Shadows
by stillgoldie1899
Summary: Slash. Completely unnamed characters, insert whomever your little mind desires. Be aware of the rating- like a network TV show, mature content is suggested, but glossed over, and undefined. Actually, everything about it is undefined. One Shot.


It wasn't that it was forbidden, or illegal, or plain wrong, although other people thought that it was. There was thrill in the forbidden, the typical healthy disregard for legality, and as for it being wrong, well, if it was wrong...

It hadn't happened in the usual ways, either. The ways he was used to, the traditional 'boy meets girl, they hit it off, fun ensues, the fun ends, the girl runs off crying'. That was how he was used to these things going. But for it to be a friend, a fellow newsie, that was unexpected. An innocent enough smoke on the roof of the lodging house, a bottle of shared whiskey, and a maelstrom of pent up emotion had all lent themselves to a perfect moment. A moment that he was terrified would never be repeated, or matched, or even commented on. The memory of it could make his stomach fall away, even now, as he struggled to sleep in the dim, crowded chaos that was the bunkroom at night.

Lips insistently pressed against his, not soft or supple or rouged, just firm and demanding. He desperately needed air, his lungs were burning, but there was no way he was going to be the first to pull away. He was almost dizzy by the time he got a breath in, only to have it taken away as those same lips moved on to his neck, soft at first, but quickly replaced by the brush of teeth. His weakness, his neck. He'd never been able to resist lips on his neck, and his lips were no exception.

His hands felt so clumsy, as though he didn't know what to do with them. Normally, he'd be mauling something, grabbing handfuls of soft flesh, but there just wasn't anything to grab. Except that there was. It was just that grabbing that was going someplace he wasn't sure he was ready to go. His hands finally settled, running along fabric, safely, although desire was driving him to want more, his fingers almost twitching with the need of it.

The soft sound of caught breath, and light gasps, and faint moaning was all he could hear, and it took him a moment to realize that what he was hearing was his own voice, his own need, his own desire. There was so much that he wanted, so much he couldn't put a name to, things he hadn't known he wanted until right then. It was confusing, and it was perfect, and he could do nothing but just let it happen, lost in the whole of it.

His heart was just as confused, it seemed, thundering in his chest, almost aching, skipping, slightly painful, but sticky sweet. What if they were caught here? What if someone saw? What would people think? Did he care? Had he ever cared? Of course he cared, who could say they didn't, and really mean it? But at the same time, right then, he didn't care. The world should be allowed to feel what he was feeling, it was a gift everyone should feel at least once.

Everything he'd never thought about, all those things he never realized he wanted, there was that, and more. Skin amazingly soft under his fingertips, flesh against flesh, breath caught, fingers tangled in short hair. No silly girl he'd ever been with had done things like that, made him feel things like that, left him needing more until it was an ache, a need, an obsession. Even now, desperate to sleep, knowing that the day tomorrow was going to be miserable enough without the lack of rest, all he could do was replay in his head what had happened, every second, every sensation, expounding on it, dreaming up what would happen if he let it happen again. A bed, some real privacy, all the time in the world. What he'd let his lips explore, what his fingers would feel, what he'd give back. He could almost taste him, salty, bittersweet.

If it happened again, if he let it happen again, if he found a way to make it happen again, there were so many things he would do, so many things he wanted to try. It was driving him crazy, trapped in his head, a daydream, a fantasy, a figment he was willing to chase to the ends of the world and back, in his head, as he lay there, just thinking it.

But he was afraid. Amazingly, he was afraid. No one ever assumed he had anything to fear, but this scared him. He'd never admit it to anyone, but it scared him so badly that it bit into his desire, sapped some of it away. Some of it, just a bit, leaving him frustrated, but paralyzed. He'd never been so unsure of himself in his life. It wasn't like him, except that it was. Facing his fear of it was making him admit, to himself, to the darkness, that he had always been afraid, he'd just been so very good at covering it up.

Of course, these revelations were no comfort. They brought him no release, and no sleep. No rest for the wicked, as it were. And by the time he was rudely woken up to begin the morning with the rest of the boys, he was a walking disaster just waiting to happen. The others commented, noted he looked peaked, out of sorts. The thought he might be sick. He was, just not the way they meant. He was sick with restless thoughts, and unresolved need. Resolution was not in his grasp, in any case. Opportunity was not going to present itself any time soon. He was going to have to learn to live with the chaos that had been unleashed in his head, at least for now.

But heaven help that boy when he got his hands on him...


End file.
